


We Go Down Together

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (Van Laar's), Canonical Character Death, M/M, Praise Kink, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: "Marcheaux returns to the Louvre—to Feron’s side—upon the ringing of the midday bell."An extended and slightly alternative take on 3x05, with extra scenes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Paris](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RhU9MZ98jxo) by The Chainsmokers  
>  _“If we go down, then we go down together.”_
> 
> Translations at the end.

Marcheaux returns to the Louvre—to Feron’s side—upon the ringing of the midday bell. Only, the Governor is nowhere to be found among the throngs of birthday guests for the Dauphin packed into the crowded hall.

Courtiers appear to shrink back as Marcheaux prowls from the room. A pair of servants, unfortunate enough to be unable to avoid him, nervously inform him that the Governor was last seen talking to a small, grey-haired man, with a strange hat, and a Dutch accent. _Van Laar._ Marcheaux’s blood runs cold. What the financier is doing here, now, he does not know, but it does not bode well.

He turns on his heel, wishing to seek them out alone, but the men seem to have gathered their wits enough to follow him. As expected, the Governor is not on the ground floor, and so Marcheaux starts up the stairs, ignoring the protests of his chaperones. Empty room follows empty room, and still no sight of either elusive guest.

The final door they come to on that corridor is locked. Marcheaux knocks. The servants exchange a look and Marcheaux inexplicably hates them, for whatever they are thinking. He knocks again, a touch more desperately.

Worry is beginning to rise within him, unbidden. If Feron is in here—and all the evidence suggests that he is—he must be in some sort of difficulty not to have answered the door yet, or called out. For a few brief, horrifying moments, Marcheaux imagines kicking down the wood to find him unmoving on the other side. One day it will happen, he knows, and yet he also knows that he will never be prepared for it.

He knocks again, then again, more insistently. Then, at last—relief—Feron calls out, “Coming!” He sounds agitated though, which does little to ease the knot in Marcheaux’s stomach. The door cracks open. Feron leans heavily against the wall, exhaustion etched on his face.

“Governor?” He tries not to sound too worried.

“Georges...” The word is a sinful caress; has always sounded so on Feron’s tongue. “Get rid of them.”

Marcheaux does not need to utter a word; he hears the servants leaving, even before he can tear his eyes from the man in front of him to glance towards them. Once satisfied that they have departed, he enters the room cautiously, keeping his gaze carefully on Feron until he has shut the door behind him.

There is a body on the floor. _Van Laar_.

“What happened here?”

Feron opens his eyes slowly. “Oh, that. I had hoped it had been a dream.” He pushes off the wall carefully and steps forward, towards Marcheaux. “It’s Van Laar. I’ll need you to dispose of him.”

It is not a question, and does not need to be; Marcheaux would never disobey an order from the Governor, no matter how unsavoury the task. He stares at the body. For all the blood he has on his hands as a result of orders he has given, he has only been behind the trigger a handful of times. This is far more personal.

“The prisoners?” Feron asks.

The shift in conversation does not throw Marcheaux, although he struggles to tear his eyes from the body in front of him. “The midday bell has been rung. They’re being returned to the châtelet, as instructed.”

“No,” Feron says, suddenly agitated once more. “We were supposed to delay it.”

“I got no message.” He looks to Feron in alarm. For a day that started with so much promise, it is rapidly unravelling.

“Grimaud needed time! They should only have been returned at the evening bell.” It is clear that Feron is not angry at him, thankfully, but at the men who did not pass on the message. “Oh, Georges,” Feron says, his voice still curling around the name, “what have we done? They’ll never be able to get out.”

The look on his face indicates that his worry is for the gold they stand to lose, not the fates of Grimaud and his men. Marcheaux shares that concern. They stand in horrified silence for a few moments longer.

“You should —” he says, gesturing at the door, meaning, _go back downstairs before you are missed_.  
  
Feron meets his eyes in silent understanding. He moves over to the chair to collect his coat, and with it the public figure of the composed Governor of Paris returns. He glances down at the body between them, is silent for a few moments longer, then leaves. The trust he puts in Marcheaux to sort this twists something within him.

It is not completely clear yet what transpired here—he will find out later, no doubt—but Marcheaux knows enough about Feron’s business to guess, and if Van Laar came here for his money, he is leaving without it.

 _When people see me as a cripple, they severely underestimate what I am capable of_ , the Governor had told him at their very first meeting, his knife pressing into Marcheaux’s skin. He has many scars littering his body, but none give him more pride than those marks he has received doing the Governor’s bidding, and the one he wears on his face, courtesy of Feron’s own hand, is his highest honour—a constant reminder of who he belongs to. He has not underestimated the Governor since. It seems that Van Laar learnt that lesson the hard way.

With the crowds gathered downstairs for the Dauphin’s birthday party, it will be close to impossible to smuggle the body from the palace at this moment. He cannot invite help from his men—this has to stay between Feron and himself—and therefore it seems safer to leave Van Laar in this room for now, and return later.

He drags the body behind a screen in the corner of the room to hide it from view. Blood is no longer seeping from the man’s wound, but there is a pool of it where Van Laar lay, and nothing available to clean it from the floor.

Marcheaux draws an old handkerchief of Feron’s from his pocket. It is stained with his own blood, a reminder of the pain he endures for the Governor, and endures willingly. He resents that it will now be tarnished by the financier’s blood, but there is little choice.

A final sweep of the room reveals the knife, still covered in droplets of blood, glittering on the table. Marcheaux knows the sting of it himself. He holds it in his fingers almost reverently, remembering his hand on the Governor’s purse and the Governor’s knife in his skin. He can still recall the fear of expecting to be clapped in irons, but Feron had not called out for the soldiers. Instead he had taken him home, seen him undressed, bathed, and re-clothed in finery. Feron had made him anew. But the same hand that gives also takes away, and Van Laar is a testament to that.

Marcheaux wipes the blade clean on the handkerchief, then slips it into his pocket to return to the Governor later. Then he leaves the room, locking it until it is safe to return.

 

* * *

 

Marcheaux has only just returned downstairs when he hears a commotion outside. He knows those raised voices all too well. _The Musketeers_. Lurking on the stairs, it is unclear what the cause of the chaos is. Captain Treville rushes through the entrance hall without seeing him. Marcheaux follows.

The courtyard is a flurry of activity, and the Musketeers are at the centre of it, barking out orders to the Red Guard.

“Captain!” Athos calls, and Marcheaux stops skulking in the doorway to join them. They walk around to where the party has spilled into the garden, and Athos lowers his voice. “We believe there is a man here, Borel, escaped from the châtelet.”

“The King is determined the party will go ahead,” Treville says. “We need to find this man quickly and quietly.”

“Captain Marcheaux, have your men search the palace and the grounds,” Athos orders.

“This man Borel is dangerous?” Marcheaux asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Yes. He wouldn’t be at large if you and your men had done a better job at the châtelet,” Athos says. Perhaps he expects to get a rise out of Marcheaux with that comment, but he does not react. “He has already killed three today, perhaps more.”

Marcheaux turns, an idea already forming in his head. It seems like the disposal of Van Laar’s body is going to be far easier, and far more public, than he expected.

 

* * *

 

Once he has moved the body into a quiet area of the gardens—thankfully having not met another soul on the way—Marcheaux returns to the palace to seek out the Governor.

He enters the hall in time to hear the King say, “You must show me that you love my son as I love him and swear your loyalty. First, Philippe Feron, Governor of Paris.” Marcheaux feels his blood run cold at the cruel irony.

Silence falls as all eyes in the room fix on the Governor, who, until then, had been advancing through the crowds without drawing too much attention. He cannot escape now, and Feron seems to know it.

“I, Philippe Feron, pledge my loyalty to the boy with the purest blood in the whole of France.” His voice does not waver as he speaks, but looking up into the innocent face of the Dauphin must break something within him, because he attempts to kneel.

Marcheaux can sense, even before it happens, what is about to occur. By the time Feron hits the ground, he is already halfway across the hall. He drops to his knees before the Governor, but is not the only one to have rushed forwards; Treville and Athos are there too, their hands on Feron before he can stop them. Marcheaux feels a rush of hatred towards them, but does not refuse their help as the Governor has not protested.

The Dauphin clambers off his throne and approaches, wanting to help too. “Uncle!” he cries, taking hold of Feron’s hand.

Marcheaux does not know where to look. He fixes on Feron’s face, the safest of them all, and sees the conflicting emotions flitting across it. Luckily, only Marcheaux knows how to read them.

Feron looks into the boy’s eyes. “I pledge my loyalty to the future King of France,” he says, a touch of desperation in the words. He presses the Dauphin’s hand to his forehead. “And may God forgive me.”

It is too much, too open, too close to a confession. Marcheaux begins to help him from the ground, hoping it will distract Treville and Athos enough that they will not dwell on his words. A vain hope perhaps, but all they have left at this stage.

Marcheaux obediently follows the Governor as he leaves the room, glaring at the staring courtiers as they pass. Everyone wisely looks away.

Once outside the hall, the Governor keeps walking, leaning heavily on his sticks. Marcheaux wants to offer his arm in support, but knows that it would not be welcome in public view. Feron leads them into a room with no courtiers and no servants. It is blissfully quiet. Feron does not bother locking the door, just leans heavily against it.

“You should take a seat,” Marcheaux says, trying to keep the concern out of his voice.

Feron obliges without argument, which is a clear sign of the pain he is in.

Marcheaux stays guard by the door. “I suppose you heard there is madman loose in the palace?” He cannot bring himself to talk about the scene in the hall.

“The King was informed,” Feron says; his way of confirming that he was also made aware. “He has not yet been found?”

“Not yet. One of our Red Guard has been found dead in the grounds, but the culprit is not yet accounted for. He could kill again.” He takes a step towards Feron, lowers his voice. “I have used the situation to our advantage.”

Feron nods in understanding. “Well done, Georges.” Marcheaux bows his head gratefully at the praise. “However, we are not entirely in the clear,” Feron says, his own voice dropping in volume. He beckons Marcheaux closer. “Van Laar brought letters with him, informing the King of our… transaction. I believe Minister Treville placed them on Louis’ desk. I was interrupted in my attempt to retrieve them, and Van Laar refused to.” At last, Marcheaux understands the reason for the man’s death. “Once more I must ask a difficult task of you.”

The order is clear.

 

* * *

 

Marcheaux slips upstairs surprisingly easily, whilst the Governor returns to the hall. There is nobody around to stop him, and so he heads straight for the King’s chambers.

The letter is not among those on the table. Marcheaux feels panic rise within him. He cannot fail the Governor.

By chance, he looks towards the fire to see a piece of charred parchment lying on the hearth, having escaped the logs. He picks it up carefully. The only letters visible on the blackened slip are a cursive _on_ —the remnant of a signature. Marcheaux knows Feron’s handwriting when he sees it.

He releases a relieved breath, then returns the last of the parchment to the fire, watching the embers burn away the letters. The evidence has been destroyed.

Returning once more to the ground floor, Marcheaux catches sight of Treville rushing into the grounds, Aramis leading the way. He follows at a distance.

D’Artagnan is stood by the spot where Marcheaux left Van Laar’s body. Treville and Aramis join him. Marcheaux, hiding behind a hedge close by, hears Aramis say, “Borel’s here, in the palace.”

They are in the clear.

 

* * *

 

Marcheaux finds the Governor preparing to leave the palace. A servant is about to close the door of the carriage when he crosses the courtyard. The servant scurries away without needing to be told.

“Governor,” Marcheaux says, approaching the carriage. He hopes the calmly spoken word is enough to reassure Feron that all is well. A look passes between them.

Feron inclines his head in understanding. “I am returning to the office to conclude some business,” he says, for the benefit of the servants milling around. “If all is settled here, you may join me.” It is a sign that they will not talk further until then.

Marcheaux closes the door to the carriage and mounts his horse to escort the Governor back to the office.

Once there, it is with an overwhelming sense of relief that Marcheaux closes the door, blocking out the rest of the world. Feron makes his way over to the chair by the fireplace. It is a sign that they are here for business; if Feron had chosen the chaise longue, it would have been a different matter.

There is a chill in the room. “Shall I light the fire?” Marcheaux asks. Feron waves his hand dismissively, so instead Marcheaux collects his furs and takes them over to him, arranging them carefully around his shoulders. Feron grunts in a way he knows is a sign of thanks.

“I trust all is sorted at the palace,” Feron says.

“It is,” Marcheaux confirms. “I found the letter burned.” He lingers by Feron’s chair obediently. “It is not clear who found it,” he says carefully.

Feron rubs at his chin. “Let us hope it was the madman. He found the Queen in her chambers, so it is plausible that he had also been in Louis’.”

Marcheaux hopes it is true. There is not much they can do either way unless someone confronts them about it.

“The death of Van Laar has at least been attributed to Borel,” Marcheaux assures. “I was there when Minister Treville and the Musketeers discovered the body.”

“It seems we are in the clear then.”

Marcheaux inclines his head in agreement. “Have you heard any news from the châtelet?”

Feron rests his head against the back of the chair. “If they have escaped, Grimaud will no doubt pay me a visit.” He looks up at Marcheaux. “You should go to the tavern. The men would appreciate it after the events of today. We need to keep morale up. I will conclude our business here.”

Marcheaux is reluctant to leave him, but Feron does not need him to express his concern, and he will not question clear directions. “Is there anything you need, before I go?”

Feron shakes his head. “I will come for you in the carriage on the way to my rooms.”

 _His rooms_. That is a sign, then, of Feron’s intent. It is rare, these days, to make that journey.

 

* * *

 

Marcheaux is somewhere around his third drink when one of his men enters the tavern, a look of barely disguised apprehension on his face. He approaches where Marcheaux is sitting without glancing at anyone else.

“The Governor is outside. He requires your presence immediately.” The tremor in the man’s voice indicates that he expects Marcheaux to be disciplined for the fiasco at the châtelet; he suspects nothing of the real reason, both behind the break-in and the meaning for the Governor’s visit.

Marcheaux bids goodnight to his men, then heads outside and climbs into the waiting carriage without hesitation. It is a relief to be in Feron’s company once more. He sits opposite, unable to read the Governor’s expression in the darkness. It is only when the carriage passes a candlelit window and Marcheaux sees Feron’s eyes on him that he dares break the silence.

“I trust our business has been concluded?” It appears Feron’s insistence with referring to things as theirs has bled into his own speech. It is a thrill to think that they are inexplicably linked, tied together.

Feron hums in agreement, in that distinctive way of his which stirs something in Marcheaux’s belly. “Both with our mutual acquaintance, and Minister Treville.”

“Treville?” Marcheaux cannot keep the surprise, nor the dislike, out of his voice.

“It appears he has his… suspicions, about our activities. But do not fear,” he continues, before Marcheaux can interrupt, “he will keep quiet.” Feron’s tone of voice leaves Marcheaux in no doubt that he revealed his knowledge of the King’s secret. It is the only way to ensure Treville’s silence, excepting a more permanent solution.

“And Grimaud?”

“He threatened to kill me,” Feron says mildly.

“I should have been there,” Marcheaux says, anger colouring his voice. “I should have protected you.” After all, what is the point of him if he cannot even do that?

Feron reaches out to grip his knee tightly in the darkness. He chokes back any further words before they can escape his throat.

“He needs me, needs my influence,” Feron assures him. “It would not do to kill me. I will be of no use to him dead.”

 _I need you too_ , Marcheaux thinks, as Feron removes his hand. _I will be of no use if you are dead_. He does not say it aloud.

“He will not harm you,” he promises instead. Feron can probably hear it in his voice anyway. That’s the thing about being sliced apart and remade—there is nothing about him that Feron doesn’t know. He is his, entirely.

 

* * *

 

The carriage pulls up outside the rooms that Feron keeps, away from the office, and their last vestige of privacy. Not even Grimaud comes to this place. Marcheaux supposes there is a chance he knows of their existence—it is his custom to follow people and turn up where he isn’t wanted—but he has not been extended a formal invitation. He would not be welcome past the door.

Marcheaux himself keeps a room with the rest of his men, but rarely uses it. Most of his nights are spent in the Governor’s office, or here in his rooms. Feron sleeps fitfully, crippled by the constant pain in his back, so they work late and sleep briefly. He is almost always awoken by the feeling of Feron’s fingers clawing at his shoulder, or gripping tight in his hair, from where he sits on the hardwood floor, sprawled against the chaise longue or the bed.

Marcheaux clambers out of the carriage first, holding the door open. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, allowing the Governor the privacy to climb down from the carriage unassisted if he wishes. He tries to keep the gratified expression off his face when Feron says his name, seeking assistance. He offers his arm out, which Feron takes readily, strong fingers gripping hard to support himself as he steps down from the carriage.

The Governor straightens as best he can and sets off towards the building without a backward glance, relying on both sticks to hold his weight. The deterioration of his health today has been particularly worrying—he seems to have gone downhill more rapidly in the last few hours than in the past week, and is clearly in far more pain since the fall. Marcheaux shuts the carriage door and follows obediently after him.

They proceed through the antechamber at a slow pace, Marcheaux one step behind in case Feron should require his help once more. They navigate the couple of steps up to the bedchamber with a little difficulty; Marcheaux places a guiding hand on Feron’s back before he can think better of it, then freezes, expecting to be snapped at for not seeking permission to touch him, but not a word is uttered.

Feron stumbles over to the bed—a four-poster, even here, as a reminder of his power and status—and sits down heavily, eyes closed tightly.

The room is cast in darkness, as the curtains are still drawn from the last time they were here. Marcheaux quickly lights the candles on the side, before shutting the door behind himself. He turns the key, the lock clicking loudly in the silence of the room.

Feron finally raises his head to look at him, but says nothing. Marcheaux clasps his hands behind his back and quietly prays that he will be permitted to move forwards and touch Feron. He aches for the allowance so desperately that he speaks before he means to.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

He keeps his eyes carefully lowered in the wake of the words, once more waiting for the Governor to reprimand him—he is always more irritable when in pain—but again his assistance is not rejected.

Feron gestures to the side cabinet, where the opiates are stored, hidden from view even though they are the only two souls who ever see this room. Marcheaux quickly cuts pieces off the block and drops it into wine, knowing from experience the amount Feron needs to relieve the pain he is in.

Their fingers brush as he passes the goblet over. Marcheaux fights to keep his gaze steady even as his heart leaps at the contact. Feron has no such shame, eyes blazing with intent. Heat pools low in Marcheaux’s stomach. He does not break eye contact as Feron downs the drink, aware that the Governor does not wish him to. A few seconds feels like long minutes, caught in his gaze.

Feron’s hand purposefully covers the now-empty goblet as he returns it, leaving Marcheaux with no option but to clasp it with his own. It is an internal fight to break the contact and place the goblet back on the side.

Still Feron has not spoken, and when Marcheaux turns back to the bed his eyes are closed once more. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching at his jaw with one long finger. Marcheaux watches the movement, waiting for the opiates to take effect and Feron’s pain to subside; hoping to be invited back over to his side. He does not have to wait long, or at least it does not feel it, so used to waiting for orders as he is.

“Come here, Georges,” Feron says, his voice edging towards bliss.

Marcheaux does, swiftly, not needing to be told twice. The Governor does not like to be kept waiting. He drops to his knees without being asked, pressing his cheek to the soft fabric of Feron’s trouser-clad thigh. Feron does not seem to mind the liberty, placing a hand on his own knee, fingers close to where Marcheaux’s head rests.

 _He killed a man today_ , Marcheaux reminds himself. The first kill by his own hands, not just in his name. Marcheaux has no qualms about killing for him, but Feron does not have the practice in it that he does. He kills to protect and defend him, and the Governor should not have to do the same. Once more he has failed in his duty.

It seems that Feron does not feel that way however, as he winds a hand through Marcheaux’s hair, fingers scraping lightly at his scalp.

“You did well for me today,” Feron says, as Marcheaux gratefully tilts his head towards the touch. A thumb rubs against his jaw. “ _Mon chasseur_.”

“ _Maître_ ,” Marcheaux responds reverently, eyes fluttering closed at the praise. In the heavy silence that follows he listens to the sound of Feron breathing above him, savouring each steady inhale, each slow, relaxed exhale. It means the opiates have had the desired effect. And, of course, it means Feron is alive, and he will savour that for as long as he can.

Then Feron brushes a thumb deliberately across his lower lip. Marcheaux opens his eyes. He knows how the next part goes.

“Remove your jacket,” Feron requests, voice roughened, but no longer by pain.

That voice itself is capable of undressing him, and so Marcheaux obeys, sitting back on his heels. His shirt hangs loosely from his body, the wide v at the neck revealing the skin of his chest to Feron’s gaze. He relishes seeing Marcheaux less than fully clothed, exposed to his gaze, in clothes he chose for him.

“Look at you,” Feron murmurs, with something akin to wonder in his voice, dark eyes roving hungrily down Marcheaux’s body. This is what they come to these rooms to indulge.

“You may touch me, if you wish,” Feron says. It is voiced as a choice, but Marcheaux knows that it is not; he knows a command when he hears one. He wants it anyway. They are well-versed in this.

He shifts easily to position himself between Feron’s thighs; Feron spreads his legs to allow Marcheaux to slide closer, his shoulders pressing against them as he rises from his heels.

Feron’s hand curls into his hair once more, even before Marcheaux draws his cock out and sucks the tip into his mouth. He trembles gratefully against the weight of it on his tongue. No matter how many times he is given this gift, it still feels as important as the first time, when he had shuddered in the grip of Feron’s strong hands and dropped to his knees in front of him, overwhelmed with the desire to please.

He looks up at Feron now, like he did that first time, to see the expression of pride on the Governor’s face that he knew he’d find there. Feron’s hungry eyes are fixed on him, burning into his skin. Marcheaux shivers and looks away before it ruins him completely.

He rises higher on his knees, improving the angle, and allowing Feron’s cock to slide easily between his lips. This way he can take in as much of Feron as he can manage, curling his hand around the base. The smooth friction makes it easier to ignore the strain in his thighs and the numbing press of the wooden floor against his kneecaps.

Feron takes control then, using his grip on Marcheaux’s head to set a rhythm between them. His other hand strokes across Marcheaux’s forehead, down his scar, his cheek, his parted lips. The path of his fingers burns across Marcheaux's skin like a brand, marking him. The softness of Feron’s touch, set against the rocking motion of his hips, almost sends him over the edge, and he has to fight back a moan.

It seems he is not the only one affected however, as Feron has started panting above him, his breaths coming a little faster than before. He does not have the same restraint that Marcheaux does, particularly not in this state; riddled with opiates and close to release.

“Georges —” Feron groans. His fingers tug at Marcheaux’s hair, pulling at his scalp.

Marcheaux does not mind the sharp edge of pain, just presses his tongue against the hot skin, knowing that Feron is close.

“Look at me,” Feron commands.

Marcheaux obeys readily, fixing his eyes on the wild darkness of Feron’s.

Feron gasps out his name once more and then the hand in Marcheaux’s hair tightens its grip, as the euphoria crashes over him in a wave. Feron had once described the effect of opium in a similar way. Marcheaux, swallowing around him, prefers this way of easing his pain. With the way Feron looks at him in the aftermath, he thinks Feron shares that thought.

The look is Feron’s permission, and it sends Marcheaux over the edge, shaking gratefully in the cradle of Feron’s thighs. For someone who has fallen so far from God, this is the closest to a blessing as he will get.

He pulls back, allowing Feron’s cock to slide from between his lips. Feron reaches into his coat for a handkerchief, using it to wipe the mess from Marcheaux’s chin with a careful finger. It is the second he has stained today.

“Some wine, I think,” Feron says then, and Marcheaux agrees readily, needing something to wash the taste from his mouth. He has a feeling that is why Feron suggested it, but he does not mention it.

They share from the same goblet as before, Feron’s eyes twinkling at him from over the rim. It is rare these days to see him so unguarded, but Marcheaux is glad of it. It reminds him of how they were before, when Feron suffered less from his condition and the Musketeers were not around to foil their every plan.

“I will go to the Louvre first thing,” Feron tells him as Marcheaux sets the goblet back and kneels once more. “Treville will expect me to stay away, after today. I will not admit any guilt to him by complying with that expectation.”

Marcheaux presses his cheek against Feron’s thigh, the fine material caressing his skin. “I will come with you,” he murmurs against the seam. This time, he will not let him face Treville alone.

Feron does not argue the point, instead allowing Marcheaux to bend down to remove his boots. There is something in the warmth of his gaze that makes Marcheaux quiver. He leans down further to press his lips to the cool leather of Feron’s boots; first the left one, then the right. The kindling heat in Feron’s eyes when he looks up tells him he has done the right thing. He repeats the action, this time removing the boots carefully afterwards.

He sets them at the side of the bed, then rises to his feet to assist Feron as he removes his coat, leaving him in undershirt and trousers. Only Marcheaux gets to see this vulnerable side of him. Even sprawled on the floor of the hall this afternoon, there had still been something quietly dignified about the Governor. There is no façade here.

Marcheaux pulls back the covers on the bed, allowing Feron to slide between the sheets. Then he returns to the floor, ready to sleep himself.

He has spent many nights on the floor here, and on the office floor next to the chaise longue, where they sleep if it has been a particularly long day, or if Feron is too tired or in pain to move. It warms Marcheaux that Feron made the journey here tonight, despite his pain, and allows himself to think that it was to reward him for performing so well today.

There is a welcome familiarity in the hard press of wood into his spine, to the point where he struggles to sleep in his own bed now, on the rare occasions when he returns to his room. Or perhaps it is that he is not accustomed to sleeping without Feron by his side.

Feron’s hand reaches out from the covers to rest on Marcheaux’s shoulder. The touch warms Marcheaux’s skin through his shirt, a beacon of heat against the chill of the room. Feron’s forefinger strokes against his neck.

“You may join me, if you wish,” Feron says into the quiet darkness. Once again it is a command voiced as a choice, and once again, Marcheaux is more than happy to obey. He slips into the bed next to Feron silently.

He does not voice his concerns about Feron’s allegiances, or ask what they are going to do next. In the days that follow he will wish that he had, but for the first night in a long time he sleeps soundly next to his master, not knowing it is the last time they are to be this close.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _mon chasseur_ = my soldier  
>  _maître_ = master 
> 
> I'm [skatingthinandice](http://skatingthinandice.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
